


What An Auror You Make

by lettersbyelise



Series: Wordless I Love Yous [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Auror Draco Malfoy, Auror Harry Potter, Auror Partners, Based on a Tumblr Post, Frottage, Gift Fic, Hair Washing, Kissing, M/M, POV Draco Malfoy, Pining, Showers, Unresolved Sexual Tension, because duh, look who this is a gift for, mentions of wanking, wordless i love yous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-11-24 00:05:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18158819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lettersbyelise/pseuds/lettersbyelise
Summary: There is an advantage to being in love with his unsuspecting Auror partner. Onlyoneadvantage, sure, but not a inconsequential one: Draco’s never short of wanking material.





	What An Auror You Make

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Coriesocks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coriesocks/gifts).



> Hello, Coriesocks, darling. Look what you did to those boys. Look at it. You made them all soaped up and horny in my head and now it’s on paper as well.  
> I had a blast writing this lil ficlet. Thank you for the prompt, babe <33

No matter how Draco looks at it, being madly in love with his Auror partner is quite inconvenient.

First: it's not like Draco can forget about him, even for a few minutes. That's the thing about a  _ partner _ : he's  _ always there.  _ Awful, isn't it? Truly tragic. He despises himself for going through life as a lovesick idiot, and yet… He hasn't quit his job, or faffed off to Fair Isle to raise sheep, so he might as well admit it: he’s stuck in the limbo of unrequited love and unreciprocated pining forever. 

Harry’s there in the morning when Draco comes to the office, greeting him with a smile and a muffled ‘Morning, Malfoy,’ muttered into his mug of tea. He's there when Draco goes to lunch — sure, they’re rarely alone, the two of them, they’re almost always joined by other Aurors, Weasley and Finnigan and Abbott — but  _ still.  _ He's there when Draco takes a bite of his sandwich and looks up to find those dazzling green eyes on him. If Draco ever dies choking on a mouthful of bread and roast beef, Harry Potter will be to blame.

Tonight, Harry's here still, when Draco walks into the locker rooms after an intensive session of combat training. The sight of him stops Draco in his tracks. It’s late, and most of the Aurors have left to shower at home. Except Draco and — well,  _ Harry. _ Who has divested himself of his clothes and is standing near the benches, with only a plush, white towel hanging from his waist. The line of his spine glistens with sweat and his black hair sticks to the back of his neck. He’s facing away from Draco, and Draco silently prays to Merlin that his presence — and lustful staring — won’t be noticed. He’s going to wank to that image of Harry for _ weeks, _ because he’s pathetic, and what else would he do with that memory anyway? Might as well put it to good use. He’ll close his fist around his cock at night, and picture Harry’s strong back pressed against his chest, those shoulder blades wide as wings against his collarbones, and that perfect swell of arse pushing against his groin, his stiffening prick slotting inside Harry's crease— 

Yes. There is an advantage to being in love with his unsuspecting Auror partner. Only  _ one  _ advantage, sure, but not a inconsequential one: Draco’s never short of wanking material.

Still. The downsides outweigh the benefits,  _ by far. _ Draco wishes he never laid eyes on Harry Potter, let alone allowed Shacklebolt to pair them as partners after their first year of training. Let alone accept Harry's offer for friendship, one late night at the Leaky Cauldron, just before the bell rang for last orders, when Draco'd already had one beer too many and would have agreed to being Harry's  _ anything, _ anyway. Let alone live the rest of his life like this, containing the bonfire of his feelings for Harry behind the cool, collected mask of  _ Draco Malfoy, Senior Auror for the DMLE. _

Sometimes he worries that he’ll let something slip; that his gaze will linger, a beat too long, a shade too soft, and Harry will  _ know. _

Just then, Harry unwraps the towel from around his hips and walks to the showers, stark naked, his pretty bum bouncing with each step. 

Draco's mind goes blank. Too blank for him to worry about anything.

The sounds of the shower running in one of the middle cubicles pulls Draco out of his numb trance. Harry is showering. In the shower.  _ Well yes,  _ of course _ showering in the shower, you bloody idiot. _ Hot water falling on his sore shoulders, plastering his wet hair to his forehead, sluicing down his stomach, his thighs— 

_ Merlin. _ Draco gives his head a shake.  _ Get a grip, Malfoy. _ He pulls his own sweaty tank top up and over his head, lets the fastening of his joggers loose. They bunch at his feet and he steps out of them, his mouth dry and his ears thrumming with his pulse. Unthinkingly, he removes his boxers and walks towards the shower cubicles. They're all free at this hour — all, except  _ one  _ — so he could pick any one of them. Any one. He wouldn't have to walk very far to find one for himself. Not past Harry's cubicle. No, that would be unnecessary. Ludicrous. Then why is he walking past Harry’s anyway, his gaze drawn to the cubicle door Harry has left half open, his eyes catching a glimpse of golden skin and water running down a taut body—

There's a grunt, and Draco freezes. Another grunt, coming from the shower cubicle. Halfway between pain and pleasure. 

Who knows what Harry's doing in there? Who  _ knows? _ Draco should leave him to it. He should. Maybe — maybe Harry's just having a  _ normal _ shower. Maybe he's not — Draco swallows hard — not  _ wanking _ in the shower. But Draco's been standing in front of Harry's cubicle, motionless, for far too long now. He hears another muffled groan, and Harry's voice comes from behind the door.

“Malfoy, is that you?”

Caught, Draco answers before he can help himself. “What an Auror you make, Potter. No detection charms around you while you're naked and vulnerable?”

There's a laugh, barely audible over the sound of water splashing. “Bold of you to assume I'm  _ vulnerable.” _

Draco swallows. “I'm nothing if not. Bold, I mean.”

“Yeah?” Another grunt, and the sound of a shampoo bottle clattering on wet tile.  _ “Fuck.” _

“You all right in there, Potter?”

“Not really.” Harry sounds hesitant. “I think I pulled a muscle during training.” 

For a moment, there's only the sound of the shower running. Draco forgets to breathe. 

“A muscle?” He eventually asks. The question comes out slightly strangled. 

“In my back —  _ fuck.” _ Another sound — a bar of soap falling to the floor. “Well. Now I'm without soap, too. I can't —  _ bend over.” _

Images of Draco helping Harry to bend over fill Draco's helpless brain. He says: “Let me—” and pushes the shower door open.

Inside, he finds exactly what he expected — a wet, naked Harry Potter, eyes wide, mouth hanging open in shock, and hands scrambling to cover his crotch. Oh, and a bottle of shampoo on the floor, too.

_ “Malfoy!?” _ Harry hisses, but the shower’s still running, plastering his hair to his eyes, and he looks distinctly non-threatening, like a disgruntled poodle forced into a bathtub.

Draco realises he's also starkers when Harry's eyes helplessly fall to his — mercifully flaccid — cock.

“My apologies, Potter, but you sounded like you needed a hand.”

Harry straightens his back then — in surprise, in shock — and he flinches with a grimace. Hunching his shoulders again, he rubs the side of his neck. “Ow.”

“If you don't mind,” Draco says, and steps into the shower cubicle in earnest. He bends and grabs the fallen bottle. The idea of how inappropriate this is, the whole barging in on his partner’s shower, the whole standing naked in a small space together — it's all in the back of his mind, like the faint buzz of the wireless echoing through his flat on a lazy Sunday morning. He knows it's there, but it's irrelevant to the matter at hand. 

The matter at hand is shampoo bottles and soap, and a wet, bewildered Harry Potter still eyeing Draco like he’s lost the plot.

Maybe he has. 

“You obviously need help, Potter. Don’t look so offended; it happens to the best of us.”

He uncaps the shampoo bottle, and Harry takes a step back. His back hits the tiles, and he stares at Draco in disbelief —  _ disbelief, _ not horror or panic, Draco notes dimly.

“What are you—” Harry breathes, just when Draco instructs him, softly, “Turn around.”

And amazingly — Harry  _ does. _

Holding his breath, Draco tilts the shampoo bottle, pours some product in the palm of his hand. Rubs his hands together, spreading the shampoo, then lifts them and — and  _ touches Harry's hair. _

It's warm from the water, thicker than Draco's, coarser. Exactly how Draco’s imagined it. Merlin, he  _ has  _ imagined it, so much. So  _ often, _ without even acknowledging the thought. He rubs his palms across Harry's scalp, then dips his fingers into his hair, raking through it, lathering it.

Harry's whimper is nearly drowned in the sound of water falling over them like a summer thunderstorm. It's not a sound Draco ever expected to hear. His heart and his cock give a lurch.

Throat tight, heart beating in his ears, he rubs small circles into Harry's scalp. The way he likes to do it when he washes his own hair. The way he likes it when Jean-Paul, his hairdresser, washes his hair before a cut.  _ Reelax, Drah-co, _ he always says,  _ oh la la, so tense. _

Harry pushes his head back, just a fraction of an inch. A minute acquiescence, imperceptible to anyone but Draco, trained as he is to read the most miniscule reactions from Harry. He runs his hands through Harry’s hair, lets them slide down the sides of his neck, onto his shoulders. Harry tenses under his palms, but after a long moment when Draco doesn’t move, he lets his shoulders fall, tilts his body back, the top of his shoulder blades grazing Draco’s chest.

“Harry…” Draco says. His voice is thin.

Harry hums, presses back against him. An acknowledgment or a permission, Draco can’t be sure. In the midst of this surreal situation, his task remains: lather Harry Potter with shampoo and soap first, because he sprained his back and can’t reach it. Worry about the meaning of it later.

He summons the bar of soap, wets it under the spray, and rubs it on Harry’s shoulders, over the knots of muscle at the base of his neck.

Harry lets out a hard exhale. “Merlin,” he says. It sounds like a curse, like something he can’t help. He reaches for the tiled wall in front of him, presses his palms to it for leverage, while Draco kneads his shoulders, down his back,  _ down down down _ until his hands still on the small of Harry’s back.

Draco is so fucking hard, he can barely breathe.

Harry lets his hand fall from the wall, then. Turns around, slowly, water still pounding his body. His eyes are hooded when he looks at Draco, and Draco can’t look away, even when his throat contracts around an instinctive, damningly obvious swallow.

Except that Harry makes to move, and Draco’s gaze drops from Harry’s eyes to his chest, his stomach, his cock — his erection unmissable, jutting out of a nest of black curls. Before Draco has time to react (fight Harry, kiss Harry, flee the scene,  _ anything) _ Harry is crowding him against the wall, the length of his body pressed against Draco’s, solid and strong and wet. His mouth hovers over Draco’s lips, and Draco is panting, his shallow exhales bursting out of him, right in Harry’s face.

“You never told me,” Harry says —  _ groans, _ when their hard cocks slide against each other, trapped between their bodies. 

“Told you what?” Draco whispers back, fighting to keep his eyes open against the onslaught of sensations. The smell of Harry’s hot breath, so palpable he can almost taste it; the catch of Harry’s cockhead against his foreskin; water and soap and precome slicking their stomachs, making Draco buck into Harry’s hips; the nearness of Harry, the divine nearness of him, so often fantasised, finally real. He knows he sounds disingenuous, what with his cock leaking against Harry’s, his hands itching to grab Harry’s hips; but he needs to be sure — he needs Harry to confirm that this isn’t just a very realistic, cruel dream.

Harry’s lips twist in a half-smile, his eyes wistful. “That you wanted this.” He reaches up, tucks Draco’s wet hair behind his ear. His thumb lingers on Draco’s cheekbone. Caresses his face. “That you wanted —  _ me.” _

Draco leans in, touches his lips to Harry’s. The shower’s still running, sweet hot summer rain. He presses in, kisses Harry’s open mouth. Hands in his hair, on the sides of his neck, on his shoulders. Harry melts against him; his hips move against Draco in small, helpless thrusts. He moans into Draco’s mouth, and Draco pulls back. The tip of his nose is just an inch away from Harry’s.  

“What an Auror you make, Potter,” he murmurs. Harry’s eyes crinkle at the corners. He looks so good, and he looks like he’s  _ Draco’s.  _ And Draco pushes on, heart in his throat. “No detection charms, yet here I was, head over tits for you all along.”

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are lovely!
> 
> Find the original prompt (and tumblr post) [here](https://lettersbyelise.tumblr.com/post/183476074661/number-20-please-let-them-get-all-soaped-up-and).
> 
> Come say hi to [coriesocks](https://coriesocks.tumblr.com/) and [me](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/lettersbyelise) on Tumblr!


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